Fear and Smiles
by HarleysScarecrow
Summary: Johnathan Crane leaves Arkham and is met with a life changing bond with fellow Batman villain and new found love Harley Quinn. This is my first time writing fan fiction, so critiques are welcome. This story will be written with graphic content, so please lock up your children. I dedicate this to a very special Harley Quinn in real life. This is for you, Ashlyn 3


Chilled winds wandered more freely in the unpolluted horizon of rural sky. The turf that connected between the countryside and the urban smog of Gotham City was imaginable only by a hair's breadth. Bony fingers brushed past the dark chocolate mane of his head, the rough tips absorbing the grease of his scalp. The figure eased his way past the dim prairie, the gale combing in the rest of his cottony hair.

The moon's gleam reflected Johnathan's lenses, his brittle temples rocking back and forth. The light squeaks of the hinges chanted along with the orchestra of crickets. His ocean blue eyes winced to the repetitive shine of the sky's observing lantern, the sour yellow belittling his existence to that of a god's eye.

There are no gods, Johnathan thought; only monsters.

A respected doctor once, Johnathan became what he sought to be: fear incarnate. His recent encounters with the Caped Crusader had him under careful watch of the many doctors of Arkham. Of course, mastery in psychology has come to good use to ease himself the manipulative façade that made them believe that after months, Dr. Johnathan Crane was human again, that the fiend of fear was washed away from his mind. Even with the recent therapeutic evaluations, the true monster of Crane's deep reveries was throned in subconscious shadow, echoing promises of power. Waiting for a day of release, to take what is given…to feel the coarse face of his again…

The cool autumn air had soothed his cheeks, the cackling of leaves he treaded on brought mirrored sounds of grainy laughter. Johnathan sighed deeply as he made his way down the murky stoned path to the farm he once lived in. The nostalgia crept in to his frivolous nerves of sensing everything again; dry wood walls, the creaking flat, the child screeches that rung his ears, the stiff, expired coldness of bone….the hanging fillets of chunk that clung to human face…the crimson discharge of gore that fountained from his mouth…

_Please, daddy! Please let me out of here! Please just make it s-s-ssstop…._

The clockwork shift broke his mind when the latch clicked to the keyhole. His mindful trip to memory lane had him feel time had passed too suddenly reliving his tortures, teleporting back to his programmed human instinctive. He could still taste the metallic sweetness of blood from those years back, in his head. The trauma was unfathomably rich in his head, barely held together by woven stitches of his sanity. How he keeps himself to sleep without breaking from the incubus his father put him through still amazes him.

He flung his spoiled shoulder bag, his auburn coat parachuting along with it, to the corner of the room. He slouched his willowy back as he walked his lead-heavy limbs. Knowing his reputation in Gotham, cabs wouldn't give a second look to allowing Johnathan in to ride without wanting to bury his bony face with a shade of navy blue blotches after last year's brigade of mass-fear gas genocide he used from a blimp, and the many other hoodlums and gangsters that would have no mercy ringing around a scrawny male in his 30s. Treading at a reasonably cloaked pace took several hours of legwork and a drained mind for his surroundings. His weary head knew it was not time for rest yet; there was much to scheme.

He took out his ball point pen from his breast pocket, pressing a light scribble on the back of his expired release form from the asylum he crumpled up from his pocket earlier. Once he managed a few linked curls from his line of ink, he proceeded to shape a brainstorm chart. His first resource was to assort more of his signature vapors, but his resources are relied on finances. Perhaps a bank heist? Which criminally insane inmates were available to offer men? Riddler? No, Nigma's inflated ego would cause himself to be tracked by those illogical riddles. Ivy? Considering her hatred of men, highly unlikely. Killer Moth? He would rather feed off rocks and sticks than to be a laughing stock working with that mortified excuse of a villain.

The Joker…

Johnathan gritted his teeth to a bone saw catching that lunatic. The last attempt made with the Clown Prince of Crime resulted in a psychotic rage of Joker thrashing a thick, mahogany chair all over his body for not having the right flavor of chips he wanted, as Crane only had potato. Unpredictable swine, murmured the ex-doctor.

**_CRASH_**

Crane's head jolted in surprise as the sound of what he recognized as breaking glass shook his ears. His instinctual nerve pushed expeditiously, his fingers coiled around his Remington shotgun, not a tremble in his cold veins. His eyes darted around both corridors of his refuge, leering at the empty halls. Johnathan briskly went against the wall for cover, his breathing almost still. His father taught him how to use a firearm at a young age, but was never much the hunter. He preferred his methods more…timely than a simple shot of misery-cutting expiration. However, now was not the chance to question his approaches for offensives; he had to preserve.

His movement swift, the gaunt man stiffened his back, parallel to the hoary wall. His cheeks stretched his flesh further against his mask of skin. The rutted surface of timber scathed his prodding spine, a discomforting claw through his insipid dress shirt. The gasping scrape, albeit faint, irritated further. Despite his ferocity, Crane was not on par with his physique as his intellect. His neck tweaked nervously, a feverish impulse absorbing his tensions. He could intake the corroding face as his nerves shivered further, bathed by the beads of fearful moisture. Weakness. Vulnerability. Human. The vexes of fragility infuriated himself.

A slight movement of the shadows was all it took; without a flicker sooner, Johnathan jerked his torso through his cover. His legs followed suit with an uncoordinated stride, nearly fumbling him off balance. Holding his mechanical suppressor, he focused his aim at the silhouette figure before him. The sudden dash did not safeguard his view, as the radiant light beamed against his iris, the plasmic blotch paralyzing his eyesight briefly. The vivid spectrum of colors had him witness his world in an otherworldly spectrum, a puncture of sepia. The curvaceous figure drew back feverishly, jumped by his offensive position.

"P-please don't shoot me! I didn't do anythin, I swear!"

Crane lifted his eyes as the splotches from his sight faded away. Present before him was a young woman peaking a height just near Crane's collar. Her heavenly blue eyes mirrored his, bridging a silent communion of familiarity. Her sunny blonde hair stuck to her face, tangled further into a smudge of black and white face paint. Her headwear resembled that of a court jester, goofily representing her inane mindset, but it was crooked unfamiliarly with smudges and rips. The Clown Princess of Crime trembled heavily in bilious vulnerability, slouching uncomfortably with broken glassware

Johnathan departed from his threatening ruse and lowered his weapon. He stared in shock equal with his response; "Harleen Quinzel. What the bloody hell are you doing in my home?"

Harley's lips quivered, her eyes only focused on Crane's as the most definitive communication. Her words untidy and muddled, she tried to clear her verbal passageway with her pixie hand soothing her nauseous trachea. Her gloves were slightly damp and itching from held tears. "I…I did nothing wrong…and it hurts…s-sooo much".

Crane then realized her condition. Blood gashed through her abdomen region, graffiting across her noir and cerise outfit, more blended with the bright red portions. Her pouring jaw smeared with dripping crimson as marks were crafted on her pale, doll-like face. Her eyes drew a ghastly expression, submission to the thin thread of sparse breaths. Physical abuse was typical from the madman, but the canvas he sculpted this time was an abolishment of human mentality. Even for Crane's desensitized imagination, the grave presence of the shattered girl could not find a place in his mental library.

Sensing her dimming seconds of consciousness, Johnathan hasted an extended stride with his long legs to her tumbling anterior. Her descending glide against his bosom pressed a soft rebound from her breasts. The ripples of temperate blood stained his prim fabrics, soaking his touch with shivering intent. Her weary head hilled over his stiff shoulder, spooling against the edge of his joint. Johnathan carefully clasped his rough palm against her lowering cheek, attempting to cautiously comfort it back against his neck. Time against his thinking, Johnathan picked her by her near lifeless legs and hurried to the busted door of the basement. There were only minutes left if he could save her.

His exchange of forceful inhales and exhales tempered as he wrung his gore stentched hand around the door knob. His mind focused on jetting through the stairs carrying the feather-like female, his inner thinking intricate from his brain and spoke as Quinn secured the last words echoing into her sealing ears.

"Hang in there, Harleen"


End file.
